Music Recommendation: This is me trying by Taylor Swift.
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It's been three hours since Jace closed the door behind him, and left her all alone. She felt the house crowding her.
The city didn't sleep. It never did. But the penthouse was silent. The kind of silence that curled around her ribs like a fist and squeezed her harshly.
Rielle stood barefoot on cold marble, staring at her reflection in the glass wall. The skyline blinked back at her, indifferent.
This wasn't her. This face. This place. This life was built from ruin. Some days, she wished she didn't try to kill Lina. Some days, she wished Lina was still alive to put smiles on the faces of old people.
It wasn't even supposed to exist.
She turned away, and stripped off the last of her black, tailored armor — the blouse with sharp shoulders, and the gold cufflinks that bit into her wrist. Piece by piece, she peeled off Rielle like dead skin until only the ache remained.
She moved like a ghost toward her bedroom but didn't climb into bed. No. That was too easy. Sleep has been a mercy to her for months now.
Instead, she collapsed onto the floor, with her spine against the wall, as she pulled her legs to her chest. Her hands gripped her own forearms, holding herself together in the absence of everyone. Lina did this a lot when she was alive, so it wasn't hard for Rielle.
Time dragged. The clock mocked her with its soft, tick-tick-tick, as if counting down a life she'd stolen.
"Lina," she whispered, her voice hoarse.
The name tasted foreign. Too sweet. Too soft.
Like lullabies and at that moment, she felt like an infant, feeling like the very last drop of an ink pen.
She hadn't said her name for months now.
She didn't say it. Not out loud. Not when people were watching. Not when she wore heels sharp enough to kill and eyes cold enough to command boardrooms. But alone? Alone was dangerous. Alone was honest.
She pressed her head back and stared at the ceiling. "Are you still here?"
A pause. A greater woman wouldn't beg, but Rielle wanted to howl like a wolf to the moon. Even status crumbles after a long while.
Then she laughed. Her laugh came out dry and cruel. What a pathetic thing to ask.
Of course she was still in here. Lina never left. Lina lingered like bloodstains under bleach. Invisible until someone rubbed too hard.
She remembered the rain. The sound of her own sobs, choked into fists. Jace's retreating figure. The echo of Beck's laughter behind a closed door. The way no one looked back. Not once.
The way Liam treated her like a bug, and the way Cleo stole him right under her nose. During high-school, she told Cleo what she felt for Liam but what did her best friend do? Body shamed her, and went ahead to sleep with Liam.
And Noah? He just stood still and watched everything happen. He called himself her friend but stood indifferently.
Her father? He was the worst of all. He made her believe the world was nice for treating her the way they did, and that she deserved worse. Perhaps she'd pay him a visit soon. That ready swine.
She had buried Lina that night. In the thunder. In humiliation. In the kind of heartbreak that rewired her bones.
And yet… Some nights, Lina crawled out, and Rielle wished she'd stay. Not with tears. Rielle didn't cry anymore, but with memory.
The memories that came with Lina were beautiful sometimes. It felt like the warmth of a hand that once held hers. The way her mother braided her hair with fingers that smelled like lavender and cinnamon.
And then came some of the dark ones sometimes. The necklace she sold for enough money to run. The mirror she once avoided because it showed her a face no one ever chose.
Rielle pressed her palm flat to the floor, grounding herself. It was cold. Good. She needed the cold.
Warmth made her weak, and she couldn't afford to be weak again. Not now. Not when Jace had shown up like fate's bad joke. Not when Xander was watching. Not when the world had already written her off as a casualty.
She didn't have the luxury of grief. Only revenge.
She sat there for an hour. Maybe longer. She remained there until the night stopped whispering. Until her limbs went numb. Until she was a statue wearing her skin.
Then, with careful, practiced movements, she stood. She walked to her closet, pulled out the red dress she hadn't worn since the night Lina died, and laid it across the bed.
A reminder.
Not of beauty. Not of love.
But of blood.
Tomorrow, she'll wear power again. She'd smile with her teeth and speak with her silence and everyone would call her untouchable.
The red dress lay on the bed like a warning. Its silk was pooled like blood. She traced a finger along the hem, remembering the last time she wore it. She wore it last when she'd stood in the mirror and wiped mascara off with the back of her hand, wondering if power ever felt like peace.
It didn't. It never had. Power tasted sour, maybe just to her.
Rielle walked to the window again.
The glass reflected her. Her hair was mussed, with her cheeks hollowed. Her mouth parted like she wanted to scream and never learned how.
The skyline glittered behind her like a crown she didn't ask for. She had razed herself to wear it. She gave her blood, sweat, and tears for this. There were pages turned with the bridges burnt so she could have this life.
She lifted her wrist, and examined the thin scar near the bone. The scar was always hidden by gold and time. It wasn't from a blade.
Rielle didn't bleed so obviously. It was from a night she shattered a glass in her hand and pretended it was an accident. In a party with champagne, and laughter.
No one noticed. And somehow that hurt worse. Perhaps they noticed but just didn't care because she wasn't worth caring about.